All These Tomorrows
by lemilys
Summary: "Kate, wherever she was, wasn't here…and nothing would ever be normal again, he could feel the truth of it in his bones, somewhere deep and immeasurable and ancient." An AU take on the 3XK/Jerry Tyson conclusion occurring prior to 7x06.
1. Chapter 1

**All These Tomorrows**

* * *

"Everything is more beautiful

because we are doomed.

You will never be lovelier

than you are now.

We will never be here again"

 _Homer, The Iliad_

* * *

Body sagging against the bright red door, heart seismically thundering in her ears, she stared through the window, out, out past the streamers of milky morning light and marveled. Because today was the start of something entirely new. Today their lives changed forever, by virtue of the plastic bag clutched tightly in her sweaty, trembling fist. It kind of amazed her—early this morning, still cocooned and tangled up in their expensive linens, nestled in the crater her body had formed in the memory foam mattress, pressed against the warm expanse of Castle's muscled back—how normally the morning had begun. And now? Now. She lifted her free hand to the wide stretch of her lips, an accidental grin, the joy spilling out at her seams. She was effervescent. She was shaking. She had to get a grip. Because now wasn't the right moment to change their lives. _Tonight_ would be their moment. The axis of their tomorrows.

Because now? Now he had a Black Pawn meeting that would inevitably stretch for hours and hours, Paula abrasively making demands, Gina insisting on more, detestable media exposure. So now was—yeah, no. Now was no good. Instead, she would plan for tonight and tomorrow, and all the tomorrows that stretched out before them.

And then _that_ moment—her little eye in the storm—pressed against the cool metal of the door, staring into the sun, _it_ stretched, rubber band-like, and propelled her forward, back to herself. Formidable, controlled Beckett returned; dopey, smiley Beckett tucked away safely for later.

"Kate?" Maybe not so tucked away, after all.

 _The bag._ It wasn't time for this conversation, but if he saw the bag, the conversation would be unavoidable. _Whatcha got there, Beckett? I wanna see!_ She could already hear his wheedling, nosy inquisitions and she wasn't prepared for that discussion. Pushing off of the door, she half fell, half lunged for the couch and shoved it beneath a pillow before rushing into the kitchen. _Coffee._ She would make coffee, distract herself with a task. _Coffee would save her._

"In the kitchen, babe!" Jesus, could her voice be any breathier? She sounded winded and elated. Not herself at all. He'd see through her in a minute, coffee or no. _Get it together, Beckett._ What had happened to her inscrutability? She'd once been the reigning ice queen of the 12th—nothing phased her, no informative flickers of emotion. A veritable vault. And now? Panes of glass were less transparent than she. Ridiculous. She flicked on the faucet, grabbed the water reservoir, tried to steady her hands and her voice.

"What are you gonna do today?" His voice issued from the master bedroom, muffled and murky.

 _Oh, Castle, if you knew…_

"Wedding stuff, probably. I'm on call, so fingers crossed no body drops. I don't know, maybe some house cleaning," she tried for steadiness, wasn't sure she succeeded, "I need some coffee. You have time for a cup?" She knew he didn't, was striving to fill the silence, create the illusion of normalcy.

"If I'm late, Paula will probably flay me alive, or have her new antique-broker boy-toy find a rack to torture me on, so unfortunately I will have to forgo the coffee in the pursuit of self-preservation," he ended on a sigh, rounded the corner with his gaze trained on the uncooperative knot of his tie. Relief ruffled through her at the distraction, and she set the reservoir aside, gently knocked his hands away, "Here, let me, Rick." He finally looked up at her, met her eyes, and blinked hard, once, twice, mouth parting.

"Are you okay?" Yeah, there it was. That uncanny insight she had been dreading. _Smile, Beckett._ She smiled, softly. It started out a forced thing, but then she thought of that little bag under their sofa cushion, how euphoric Castle would be, how for just a few short hours she could savor this knowledge. That it was all her own. And suddenly, her forced little smile grew into a real thing, grew warm and tender and knowing, with all the enigmatic charm of Mona Lisa.

"Yeah," she sighed, and met the soft blue of his eyes, pressed her palm to the freshly shaved plane of his cheek. "I'm good, Castle," she reassured him, and then turned her attention back to his tie, murmuring the first thing that sprung to mind in an effort to divert his attention. _Appeal to his baser instincts, engage his testosterone. Beckett._

"So...a _rack_ , huh? Medieval? Leather restraints? Sounds—" she deliberately pitched her voice low, allowing a husky note to creep in, pushed closer to his ear for effect, "— _kinky_."

"Kinky," His eyes flashed, he chuckled roughly, his breath warm against her face. With a little growl, he jerked her against his chest, trapping her hands between them. Oh, the way he looked at her— _mean, Beckett, provoking him with no intention of follow-through—_ left her dry-mouthed and a little dizzy. Her pulse jumped, hands tightened convulsively around the silk of his tie, "I thought that's what we did last night, Beckett." The _k_ in her name was a hard snap in his mouth, a rush of heat between her thighs. Yeah, her plan was not playing out the way she'd anticipated. _This might be backfiring._

"Castle," she scoffed breathily, teasingly, staring hotly into his hard, glittering eyes, reveling in his tense anticipation, knowing even as she let the words slide silky and warm from her lips, a full octave lower than her normal timbre—even as she slid her hand down the front of his trousers—that she was starting a fire she'd be forced to extinguish—

"You didn't do _kinky_ , you did _me_ from behi—"

His mouth covered hers, hand gripping her wrist, grinding himself against her hand. He was demanding, aggressive, sexy as hell. She kept expecting to develop some quasi-immunity to the acute lust that had consumed her—consumed _them_ —from the very start of their relationship, but here it was, incendiary as ever. She loved it. Craved it. Always, _always,_ it overwhelmed her.

The corner of the counter dug sharply into her hip, his hardening length pressed against her stomach, and the smell of fresh coffee grounds wrapped around them. It was like this every time—consuming and devastating and engulfing.

His tongue slicked against hers, teased the roof of her mouth, scooped moans from her throat; broad hands clutched the jutting curves of her ilia, pulling, possessive and greedy, hot, hot, _so_ hot, and she gave a little desperate mewl, absolutely _hating_ Black Pawn in that moment. Forgetting the bag. Forgetting that this started out as a distraction. All she felt was desire. Felt consumed. _Alive_. He pressed his mouth against that place on her neck that concurrently drove her into herself and out of her mind, and she bucked against him even as she pulled him closer, _needing_ him closer. Her breath shuddered out, carrying her plea, "St-stop, Castle. Y-you've got—you've gotta go or you'll be late. Please, please just—you've gotta go, Rick." It would wait, she told herself. They would wait.

She felt him still against her, his mouth lingering, a wet brand on her neck. Another moment passed, and she could see him physically and mentally recalling his control before pulling back to survey her, eyes still dark with longing. "You're a miserable tease," he muttered roughly, fingers digging into her, almost bruising. She huffed a little laugh, nodding weakly in tacit agreement, and pressed a gentling kiss to his mouth. Yeah, she loved the push and pull. Loved keeping him on his toes, on edge, with her unpredictability.

 _And tonight would bowl him over._

"And unapologetically so. Tonight I have a surprise for you." She added, surprising herself because she hadn't really intended to say anything.

 _Surprises_ , she amended internally. Several. New lingerie? Check. She had a frothy charcoal set—outrageously expensive for such a minimal amount of lace and silk—stashed in the back of her closet in a nondescript, black bag. Tonight was a good night to debut it, she mused. And their favorite Thai takeout. Wine? Well, maybe for him. She almost smiled at that thought. Of course, there would be candles and her favorite Miles Davis mix. And the little plastic bag. _Plans._

Oh, yeah. Hello. There it was. That intemperate curiosity. It flickered to life like a pilot light, ignited by her words. "Surprise? Why? What's the occasion?" She pulled the ruined tie from around his neck, draped it over her shoulder, straightened the collar of his shirt, holding his gaze as she did so. She was sure he could see the edges of her shiny happiness, sure it was welling up in her eyes, so she pirouetted away from him and toward the coffee.

"Tonight, Castle," she promised softly, "it's a good surprise. But it's my secret, and that's all I'm saying about it for now."

"You're the worst," he grumbled leadingly.

"And your manipulation game is weak," she shot back, flashed him a wry grin, "Now go. Go to your meeting, and I'll see you tonight."

Grumbling, he gathered up a sheath of papers from the coffee table—the newest draft of his manuscript, she presumed—his laptop, and his phone and jogged to the front door. "Do you need me to pick anything up on my way back home?" He asked on his way out, the question almost a ritual.

"Nope, I've got tonight all covered. Just bring yourself. And your curiosity," she added.

He regarded her bemusedly, gave her that crooked half smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and nodded once. "I'll be here. So will my curiosity—you've piqued it admirably," his voice was soft, even softer than his smiling eyes, and she wondered what was running through his head. Wanted to ask him. Did he suspect? Oh, she needed to _tell_ him. She had the sudden, overwhelming urge to ask him to blow off his meeting. To just spill everything now, no filters or planning or polish. Here in the kitchen, without preamble, her a mess, him tidy and pressed, her words raw and genuine—just tell him.

But then his hand was moving, unlocking the door.

 _Too late._

"I'll see you tonight, babe," he murmured with one last smile, slipped outside, locked the door behind him with a metallic snick.

And then she was alone.

When she looked back on that last moment with him—that last moment together—she fought to salvage every detail. The way the morning light fell in broken shards through the blinds. How it glanced off of the gold in his hair, the cobwebby fineness of his eyelashes. The twist of his lips, the velvety planes of his freshly shaven face, the sleepy heat in his eyes. She spent hours playing it back in her head, a vengeful loop. Strained for every shadow, corner, and subtlety of those minimal seconds in an effort to recreate that happiness. To blot out the hopelessness, even temporarily.

When she looked back on that moment, remembering herself standing in their kitchen, bare toes cold on the tile, wearing a genuine smile, feeling very much in love and alive and full of hope, she could almost taste the regret. Ashes in her mouth. She should have told him she loved him, shouldn't have allowed her last words to be so flippant. She should have given him the bag, should have taken advantage of that moment, savored it with him. Celebrated. Reveled. Every second of that morning haunted her. Every should have. Every could have.

She shouldn't have let him leave.

What if he hadn't left.

What if he'd stayed.

What if.

 _What if._

* * *

Castle leaned against the pressed wood wall of the elevator and heaved a sigh as the doors sealed and the carriage jolted upward. Slowly. _Too slowly._ He felt uncharacteristically impatient and weary, wanted to sink down into his bed, wanted to feel the gentle weight of his fiancée enveloped in his arms, laid on his chest. Today had drained him. Ten hours confined in a stuffy conference room—his back and shoulders stiff from the unforgiving modern seating, his stomach uneasy from the limp salad he'd managed for lunch, and his best efforts unable to appease the two patently unhappy females who controlled his professional life.

Deliberating over financial minutiae was tedious at best, and when Gina was steering the deliberations? Suffice to say he'd had more enjoyable root canals. And then, of course, Paula chose _today_ to demand her pound (or ten) of flesh, insisting establishing plans for another book tour (and a radio circuit, apparently) was _imperative_ to the marketing success of his newest _Heat_ installment—an assessment he agreed with, true—but found a bit premature given he still had roughly twenty chapters to churn out before submitting it for edits. Between the two of them, Gina and Paula had left him feeling rather the worse for wear. Maybe "stressed beyond reason" was the more accurate assessment for his current mental state. Although, they had approved of the three newest chapters he'd barely managed to complete for today's meeting. So today wasn't a total catastrophe. Stressful? Absolutely. Disastrous? Not so much. Although, the whole experience had left him more than a little pissy—he really had felt marginally railroaded in regards to the book tour.

And _radio?_ Really, Paula?

But that was a rant he could indulge in tomorrow. If it even bothered him by then. Odds are, whatever was on the agenda tonight would sweep the last vestiges of his frustration away. Kate hardly ever planned surprises, so he especially savored moments like tonight, enjoyed her mysterious smiles and the almost girlish pleasure she took in his rampant excitement. He was hungry, (still) aroused, frustrated, weary, and intrigued—an odd composite of needs and emotions—but he'd be damned if he'd let any of that color tonight. Whatever tonight _was._ He'd texted back and forth with her during a lull in his meeting, and then once before leaving Black Pawn and hadn't heard back from her yet, though he assumed she was likely busy with dinner or preparations for this evening.

The elevator shuddered to halt and he strode purposely to the front door of the loft.

Turned the key, palmed the handle, pushed into the entryway, called her name instinctively.

 _Kate, I'm home._

The first thing to hit him was a wave of alien scents—bleach and pennies and damp cloth.

Second, the sights—fading evening light illuminated dark smears and spatters that freckled, adorned his floors, his walls, his ceilings.

Third, the sounds—a silence so pervasive it roared in his ears, made him aware of the frantic pounding of his heart, the way his breaths escaped in shallow pants.

And his final discovery—their Wusthof butcher knife discarded carelessly on the floor, blood on the blade, blood on the handle.

 _Blood_. All the smears and the spatters. All the puddles and pools. He could smell it, he could taste it. Saliva, bitter and salient, flooded his mouth. _Pre-emetic response,_ his writer's brain contributed. His throat was tight, a knot of muscle or emotion lodged in his windpipe.

 _But I'm breathing like a marathon runner, so there couldn't possibly be an obstruction._

Something was clenching and releasing in his chest, in his gut, striking up a furious tempo, and he could see his hands shaking uncontrollably in his peripheral vision.

He absorbed it all in the space of a moment, this horrifically still moment, an eye in the middle of a storm, and then it stretched, stretched, _stretched_ —panic crested, welled up in him, tautened his limbs, tightened his lungs, pressed against the back of his eyes, bubbled upward, _outward_ —and then.

It snapped.

 _She's dead. She's dead. She's dead,_ crept through his mind insidiously, a dark cadence that kept the same meter as his hammering pulse. His hand found his phone blindly, clutched it like a lifeline, as he called out her name again, "Kate!"

He followed a slick smear of blood, stumbling next to the cherry drag marks, tracked it from the den to his office to their bedroom to the master bath where it ended. A drawn out moan, animal pain and suffering, echoed off the bathroom tile, and he felt the edges of his vision go fuzzy at the thought that she was suffering, _dying._ It took him a moment, took him until he had flung open the closet doors and turned in frantic circles scanning the small space, to realize those sounds were issuing from _his_ mouth, were being squeezed from _his_ chest.

Kate, wherever she was, wasn't here.

Shaking, sweating, bile searing the back of his throat, he made the call. Waited what seemed to be an interminable amount of time as the whir of the dial tone punctuated the silence.

"Yo, Castle. What's up?" Esposito's voice was cheerful, sounded like he was at a bar, Ryan's voice a tinny murmur in the background.

And the sheer normalcy of the greeting just _broke_ him. Because nothing would ever be normal again, he could feel the truth of it in his bones, somewhere deep and immeasurable and ancient. His knees gave out and he sank to the floor, head knocking against the lip of the counter on his way down, back thudding against the cabinets.

"It's _Kate_ , Espo," it ripped from his mouth sob-like, but it wasn't a sob, was too dead to be a sob, too hollow, too awful, "blood everywhere in the loft and I know she's dead."

Silence on the other end of the line save for the muffled strains of some bass-heavy club jam.

"Hold on, Castle."

Yeah, that was all he needed. That assurance. The phone slipped from his hand, clattered to the floor, and he stared wide-eyed at the streaks of rusty blood on the tile and finally—goddamn _finally—_ allowed himself to succumb to the fear that rattled his bones.

* * *

 _TBC_

* * *

A/N: If you made it this far, then I thank you sincerely from the bottom of my heart. It's been a long time—too long—since I've tried my hand at fanfiction of any kind, and diving back into the minds of different characters has been an undertaking both exciting and daunting. Especially since I intend for this particular fic to be an extensive one—no set chapter count as of yet, but _lengthy._ I would dearly love to hear from anyone who reads through this and has constructive criticism to offer! There are many passages and portions of this with which I'm dissatisfied, and I'm well aware there's plenty of room for improvement!


	2. Chapter 2

**All These Tomorrows**

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

* * *

 _You are free to choose,_

 _but you are not free_

 _from the consequences of your choice._

 _A universal paradox._

 _\- Anonymous_

* * *

And then she was alone.

The pale sunlight seeped warmly through her thin, purple tunic and threadbare leggings, the scent of the coffee she would be unable to partake in this morning—and for many mornings to come, unfortunately—enticed her. Sighing, she sealed the coffee canister and returned it to the cabinet. _Now what?_ Another involuntary smile split her face, and she waited a beat, eyes flickering to the front door, before she strode to the couch and excavated the plastic bag from its hiding place.

 _What do I do with you?_

She considered crafting a series of clues, creating a scavenger hunt of sorts, that would ultimately lead him to the contents of the bag. Just for a moment, though. Really. Katherine. That was far too trite for something of this magnitude. Maybe a letter? Something sentimental that appealed to the wordsmith in him? But that was the problem— _he_ was the writer, and regardless of how eloquently she expressed herself, she would doubtless consider the end result rather amateurish in comparison. Da Vinci versus da other guy. The written word was his arena; she didn't want to tread there. And a card seemed impersonal. She wasn't a fan of the syrupy sentimentality waxed by Hallmark and Shoebox writers. Rhyme schemes weren't exactly what she had in mind for tonight.

So no, she would go with her first instinct. She would be up front. Be brutally, beautifully honest. She would simply tell him, look him in the eyes when she did so, communicate in every way possible that she was _invested_ in this, that she was certain and proud and pleased. That she loved him.

But she did want to wrap it. In blue paper? In pink paper? That in and of itself would be a dead giveaway, so maybe just a neutral gift bag. Or a brown paper package, tied up with string?

 _Her new favorite thing._

Yes, she decided simplicity was her ally in this endeavor. Keep him guessing until the very last moment.

Another irrepressible smile stretched her mouth at the thought of his reaction—would he erupt with joy, all exuberance and motion, elated eyes, bright grins, celebratory laughter and kisses? Or would his happiness be the quiet kind—teary, awed expression, bobbing throat, voice hushed with reverence, touching her as though she were made of spun sugar or glass, conscious of the little life growing inside of her?

 _Castle, we're having a baby._

Tears promised to be an ever-present threat today. She blinked to keep them from falling, swiped impatiently at her eyes, and popped up from the sofa, bag in hand.

She needed to get started, had to run some errands—find a gift bag, indulge and get her nails done, pick up extra tea candles, a non-alcoholic beverage, and…oh, she'd forgotten breakfast. That wouldn't do, not anymore. Food hadn't exactly been her foremost priority this morning, not when she'd woken up in a panic, counting days, sobering reality sweeping away the last vestiges of drowsiness. She was _late._ Which wasn't precisely uncommon for her. But she had missed last month altogether. And hadn't thought about it, hadn't even _noticed._ Had completely forgotten about her cycle amidst the chaos of wedding planning, work, and attempting to maintain some semblance of a personal life. Its absence was just…overlooked. Idiotic as that sounded.

And then yesterday at the precinct's blood drive, she had responded with a mechanical _no_ — _"is there any chance you're pregnant, Ms. Beckett?"_ Of course not, no chance. They weren't even thinking of kids, were always careful. No possibility whatsoever. _No._

She hadn't made the connection until this morning, and had rushed to the closest Duane Reade without even changing out of her sleep clothes, feeling nervous and shaky and sweaty. Had bought two home tests— _always call for backup, Beckett_ —and done them in the store bathroom, too agitated to wait. Shaking hands clasped between her knees, both test sticks propped on the toilet paper dispenser, heels bouncing, eyes locked on her watch. Seconds slipped by languidly—ten seconds, thirty seconds, a minute. _Interminable._

At the two minute mark, she'd sucked in a soothing breath, sought to compose herself, and then?

A yes. Two in fact. _Yes._

A baby.

She'd cried in the Duane Reade bathroom, equal parts happy and scared. And then she'd floated home, smiling gently at strangers along the way, marveling at the way the sun limned the clouds in silver. Floated right through the front door and back to reality. A reality in which she needed to eat.

So, breakfast. Well, she didn't particularly feel like dirtying up dishes, and the only _easy_ breakfast option they had in the loft was some sugary boxed cereal Castle loved—he said the toy prize was the best part—which sounded mildly nauseating. She would pick something up on the way.

But first, she really needed a shower.

She wended her way through the office and into their bedroom, and then on some intuitive hunch—Castle was notorious for returning home unexpectedly, coming back only minutes after leaving to retrieve some forgotten personal item—stopping to stash the bag and its contents under her pillow on the bed before continuing into the en suite.

After stripping efficiently and deconstructing her tangled bun, she started up the shower, adjusted the temperature, shuddered in pleasure at the scalding pressure of the spray, and then meticulously soaped every inch of skin she could reach. _Heaven._

Tipping her head back, she allowed the water to sluice down the slopes and angles of her face, washing away the traces of her happy tears, the nervous sweat from early this morning, the fear, the concern. All of it sliding off the surface of her skin intermingled with the fragrant soap bubbles, slip-slipping down the tub drain. She tilted her head to one side, then the other, feeling her taut muscles stretch and soften. Today was going to be a maelstrom of busyness and emotion, but right now? Right now, there was just this moment, the bliss of what was, and what was to come, and the rhythmic rumble of water in her ears. And she was just overwhelmingly, embarrassingly happy.

Her fingers slid against her scalp, scooping back sopping locks of hair. She reached for her shampoo and then paused. Gave a little start, thought for the space of a second she heard something. A footstep? Seemed unlikely. But even under the force of the spray she felt the hairs on the nape of her neck, the tops of her arms, prick to attention. The kind of sickly unease that always precipitated goose bumps.

Scraping the water from her eyes, she turned toward the shower door, responding to the niggling worry— _she would just check, appease her curiosity—_ and as she did, something _slammed_ into her temple. Something granite-hard and unforgiving kissed her skull, forcing her toward the shower wall. Her head connected with it _hard_ and sent her rebounding off the white tile.

Pain, instant and overpowering enveloped her head—her eyes suddenly too small for their sockets, ears chiming, buzzing, ringing, white bursts dancing in the black field of her vision. She cried out at the impact, dazed.

 _What the hell was happening?_

She lashed out, trying to locate the source of the blow, and suddenly her feet skated out from beneath her, sending her to the floor of the tub, the jut of her spine connecting solidly with the ceramic—pain, Technicolor bruises blooming so fast she could almost feel them—and she tried to scream, but water filled her mouth, her lungs. She was coughing, choking. _Dying?_

Another blow, this one behind her left ear, and the stars, the pain, the panic, it all faded and drew away from her, like the lazy vacuum of a tube TV.  
 _Fight it, Beckett! Fight it!_

And she really did try, tried to push past the darkness, claw her way out. She was strong, she could _do_ this. But her own voice was distant and she could barely breathe and the darkness was so _welcoming_ , and then suddenly—blissfully—there was nothing.

* * *

Consciousness returned to her in degrees. First, she was aware of her fingertips, could wiggle them ever so slightly. But not her wrists. No mobility there, which was bewildering. _What happened?_ The lining of her throat felt parchment dry, paper thin, and the simple act of swallowing sent pain radiating down her neck. Which was nothing compared to the stabbing agony in her head.

Dear God, she didn't know if she could even open her eyes. Was fearful the light would intensify the throbbing. _Weak. You're being weak, Kate. Open your damn eyes._ They felt heavy, gritty and hot, but she pried her eyes open by sheer dint of will, not certain what would greet her.

Nothing. Well, nothing surprising. Just her living room. No, wait. Strike that. _Yes,_ surprising. She fell in the shower. She should be lying prone under an icy stream, not sitting upright, warm and swathed in a bathrobe. _Castle._ He must have come back. Right?

But what had happened? Her brain felt sluggish, head wreathed in pain. God, she was confused. Thinking was a chore. _Think anyways, Beckett._ She hit her head. That much she knew. Hit her head falling? No, hit her head first, which caused her to fall. Hit her head on what?

She decided to call for Castle—where was he?—tried to open her mouth. But she couldn't. _Couldn't?_ It took her a moment, just a beat, and then she was fully awake, fully aware, felt the tacky pressure of a swath of duct tape across her mouth.

The realization caused her pulse to rocket. As did the sight of her wrists bound to the arms of one of their kitchen chairs. And…of course, of _course—_ naturally her feet were restrained, as well.

She was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, scared nearly out of her mind, with no _fucking_ clue as to what was going on.

She blinked hard, trying to clear her vision, refocus her thoughts, and when her eyes fluttered open again, there he was.

Maybe she should be surprised, but it was like she had been subconsciously waiting for the other shoe to drop. Being so luminously happy for so long? The man of her dreams, a flourishing career, and now a baby? Seemed like a karmic imbalance. For her, anyways. And seeing him standing there, leaning against the office doorframe— _nonchalantly predatory_ —she could almost hear the audible thud of that phantom shoe.

 _Welcome back, Tyson._

"Detective," he greeted wryly, dipping his dark head in acknowledgement, "how's the head? I mean for us to have a serious conversation, but you took a rather nasty spill a few minutes ago and it's my hope that you won't be too affected by that. I want you clear-headed. Firing on all cylinders." He paused, regarded her, "Are you ready to talk, or should I give you a little longer to recover, regain your bearings? Blink once for yes, twice for no, please."

So coolly cordial, she observed, her stomach knotted in equal parts anger and fear. His eyes were so empty, flat and glittering—fish eyes. She blinked once to clear her vision and then stared hard at him, hoping her scowl belied how hopeless and vulnerable and utterly petrified she was in this moment. Sweat beaded on her forehead, dampened the terrycloth under her arms.

"Oh, good. And yes, I can see that you're royally pissed off, Katherine—and I sympathize—but you're really in no position to do anything. So go ahead, glare, use all the nonverbal intimidation tactics in your arsenal, but most of all, _listen_ , because whatever comes next hinges entirely on your actions. And…well, I suppose conversely, on your inactions.

"You see, after that whole miserable business on the bridge—has it really been more than a year? Time just _flies_ , doesn't it—I decided that death, well, it was too… _one dimensional_. I could kill you, but there's no real thrill in that, you understand," he held out his hands and gave a shrug, smirked apologetically, "you're a lovely woman, but frankly, you're not my type. And I may despise Castle, but—and maybe I'm looking at this too literally—the beauty of having a nemesis is _having_ a nemesis. Killing him defeats the purpose. Better to prolong the game, draw it out. To make him suffer."

She must have started at that because he hurried on to explain. "Not physically, detective. _He's_ not my type either. But psychologically? Yes. Preying on his fears, detective. Animating his darkest nightmares. Destroying his peace and happiness piece by piece by piece. That's more of what I had in mind. Which is where you come in."

None of this was making any sense to her. Where was he going with this line of thought? Her forehead furrowed and he held up a hand as though to halt her unspoken questions, "Let me continue. Don't jump to any conclusions just yet. Let me…let me just expound on those statements.

"I know that under most circumstances you would never willingly harm Castle. But would you, I wonder, harm him if it were the lesser of two evil outcomes? Either way he's going to come out on the losing end—in point of fact, you _both_ are—but the magnitude of loss is going to be entirely dependent upon your choice.

"Allow me to elaborate further: if you don't do exactly as I say, you will have the blood of Alexis Castle, Martha Rogers, Javier Esposito, Kevin Ryan, and Lanie Parish on your hands. And if you _do_ choose to obey, you'll have the singular pleasure of assisting me in staging your death. Here. In this lovely den."  
His words were so offhand, so perfunctory. As though he were remarking on the weather and not casually destroying their lives.

But that was the question, wasn't it? Was he bluffing? If so, it was a stunning performance—everything from his stance to his eye contact projected certainty and confidence. But did he have anything to back his claims? Proof, that's what she required.

And as though she had spoken it aloud—"Of course, you'll need more than my say-so on that score. You're a detective. An empiricist at your core. I understand that, and I'm happy to oblige."

Pushing off of the doorframe, he ambled to a black gym bag sitting on the sofa, rummaged around momentarily, and then pulled a tablet from its zippered maw. "Here we are," he punched in the lock code and turned the screen in her direction as he approached. It took her a moment to understand exactly what she was seeing—her eyes were still adjusting, her head still pounding, the surrealism of the moment still dazing her—but it looked like…Alexis? Her brow furrowed in confusion, gaze flickering to his face in bafflement before returning to the screen.

It was a live feed of the girl, a bit grainy from the quality of the zoom lens, but it was clearly her. Presumably in one of Columbia's spacious courtyards. She was engaged in some conversation with a grouping of students. A stack of books clutched in her arms, wearing the pale yellow cardigan she'd gotten this past Christmas, dimpling and laughing. Kate swallowed hard and looked up at Tyson who was just _staring_ at her, unblinking. " _Watch,_ detective," he commanded, and she snapped back to the screen.  
"As you can see, Alexis Castle is perfectly fine. For the present. But if you don't hold up your end of the bargain…" his voice trailed off, and he shrugged again. _So blasé_. He lifted his phone from his pocket, tapped the screen, pressed it close to his mouth, eyes glittering down at her, _mocking_ her, "target sighted?"

 _Dear God, no._ It was instant, the panic, the horror, the outrage, and a strangled cry issued from her sealed mouth, nasal and muffled. If he—if Alexis—

" _Watch_."

She was _absolutely_ helpless and her heart was withering inside her, tears welling and spilling unbidden and unchecked down her cheeks. Watch? How could she _watch_ Alexis bleed out? For _proof's_ sake.

 _Vanity of vanities; all is vanity…_

Everything she _was_ , a protector, a detective—strong, independent, capable…all the training, certifications, and dedication…it was useless. She was useless. Hands, quite literally, tied behind her back.

Alexis' raised a hand, her lips formed a farewell— _"bye, guys"—_ and the group dispersed, Alexis turning around, only her back visible now.

She wasn't surprised to see the telltale red beam materialize on Alexis' back, drift up to the middle of her head. Blinked rapidly as the picture warped through her tears, fought to keep from hyperventilating. Dully, she mused that long-range shooters didn't commonly use lasers; most snipers didn't want the hassle. Had enough finesse to do without.

But then, this was all for her, wasn't it? One big fucking show. Proof positive that Tyson was in earnest. Okay, she got it. _Enough_. _Please. I don't need follow-through._

She grunted, jerked her body forward against her restraints until the chair legs rasped against the floor.

Tyson waited, drinking in her response, and then finally, _finally,_ spoke into the com again, lips curved into a smug smile, "Stand down."

As though it had never been there, the beam disappeared, the feed zoomed out—at least 800 yards, a couple stories up, looked like—and then the screen went dark.

Silence settled on them, punctuated only by her heavy breathing, as he returned the tablet to the gym bag, and then he turned back to face her.

"If you require, I can provide an encore—we can remotely visit Martha. Dr. Parish, even. Or is Alexis enough?"

She shook her head once, tersely. _Enough. She got it._

"I figured as much," he admitted, "but I thought I'd ask, regardless. As a courtesy. It's more for your resolve than anything else. There will be moments you're tempted to initiate contact—" _Initiate contact?_ "—to put a stop to all of this, but it's my hope that what you saw on the screen will be enough to keep you from idiotically forging ahead. Which will…how should I put this? Well, it will unequivocally _fuck_ things up—your life, _Alexis'_ life, my plans. Are you following me?"

Up to this moment, he'd been so coolly controlled. But now, for whatever reason, his composure was slipping—he was unable to suppress his tightly checked fury, and it was leaking through threateningly.

 _Point taken. Don't wreck his plans. Tread lightly, Kate._

Yes, okay. She nods, wanting to reassure him, her heart in her throat, throbbing in her ears. Her acknowledgment seemed to mollify him.

"If things do go to shit," he continued, his calm returned, voice unctuous once again, "don't for one second think you'll be spared. You will suffer the same fate, and for exactly the same reason. We'll put a bullet in you, and unceremoniously discard you on—well, on _this_ doorstep with a tell-all note. Explaining how this is all on him. That _he_ is the reason you, his mother, his daughter are all destined to become a cold case that haunts him and law enforcement for decades to come. _He_ is the reason you're all lying on metal tables, Y-incisions between your breasts, stinking of formaldehyde and death.

"So…in summary, don't fuck this up, detective."

She felt like she was going to vomit, but she swallowed back the nausea hard— _duct tape, Kate—_ and felt more tears slip down her face. She was so afraid. Sick at heart, beyond terrified, and utterly confused.

"And you should know, if my contacts don't receive a FaceTime call from me at every twelve hour mark, they will carry out my instructions to the letter. Don't think you can stop them. I know you managed to apprehend Lee Travis—and well done you, really—but my associates are of an entirely different caliber—" he broke off with a snort, "—no pun intended. Travis was sick, mired in depression. And yes, he was an ex-marine, which makes him fairly formidable. But my associates are…well, they're a force to be reckoned with, detective. They're quick, quiet, and efficient. I doubt if you could find them in time, and do you _really_ want to risk it?"

He cocked his head to one side, and she knew he could see everything written on her face—the resignation, the grief, the fury. No, of _course_ she wouldn't risk it. The stakes were too goddamn high. And she was too emotional, and too scattered to attempt anything right now. _You're not giving up, Kate. You're biding your time._

Tyson raised his brows a fraction, tipped his head toward her—oh, he was waiting for a response—and she nodded once, neck stiff and eyes hard. She would obey. For now.

His face relaxed, "I'm glad we could reach an understanding," he murmured, satisfied, "and now that we're both on the same wavelength, what do you say we remove that duct tape, hmm?"  
 _God,_ yes. Please. Breathing was becoming a struggle, her nose growing congested from her stop-and-start crying jags. She nodded tersely, eyes stinging with humiliation and relief.

He came to stand in front of her, his hands coming up to her face, his fingers gripping the tape and brushing against her cheeks. His eyes were calm and cold as he surveyed her, and he paused, "But let me clarify one more thing—you try to run, scream for help, leave behind some trail of breadcrumbs for Castle, or subdue me…well, I won't insult you by spelling it out yet again. We both know where your stupidity would lead. So let's just—"

He jerked his hand, no further preliminaries, and she felt her skin stretch, her lips felt scorched. _Damn,_ that hurt, but oddly, she welcomed it. As well as the throbbing pulse in her head. It was a distraction from the panic welling in her. And she could breathe again. She sucked in a shaky breath, rattled out a few dry coughs, and then swallowed.

"So," her voice was thin and hoarse, her gaze drifting up to meet Tyson's, "you must have a plan. A believable method of death in mind. For me. There has to be evidence as to _why_ I've disappeared. If he thinks there's even the remotest possibility I'm still alive, he'll dig. He'll search endlessly. He's…he's studied death his whole life, you know. If you want him to buy it, it'll have to be…convincing. Clinical."  
He laughed—motherfucking _laughed_ —at her assessment. "Of course it will be convincing, detective. You're not collaborating with an _amateur._ I've studied death my whole life, too—a trait Castle and I share. And with your help, we can produce something terrifyingly…authentic.

"Step one," he pivoted away from her, strode back to his gym bag, and lifted up…a blood bag. A full blood bag. "Your generous donation yesterday," he elaborated. And then he retrieved…four more pints. Gingerly grouping them on their sofa in a little plastic pile before turning back to her.

"Time for a lecture. Blood collection is easy enough, of course. But storing it? Entirely different. It requires a great deal of knowledge, a lab, and access to glycerol. Adding glycerol to blood prior to freezing and storage prevents water from crystallizing in the red blood cells, which upon thawing will cause each cell to burst. It renders the blood unusable, no longer appropriate for transfusion. If a sample of the defunct blood is viewed under a microscope, the damage is quite apparent, and the technician will know instantly that the blood was frozen. Not a fresh sample.

" _But_ , if glycerol is added as a cryoprotectant, it can slowly be removed using saline rinses. Through a series of washings using progressively more diluted saline, the glycerol is rinsed away leaving behind perfectly viable red blood cells. Once they're suspended in a saline and sugar solution, you have blood. No evidence that it was ever frozen. And that is exactly what we have here," he gestured behind him.

"Thanks to your generosity over the last year—yes, I know you feel particularly indebted after the shooting, which is why you donate so religiously, isn't it? All the transfusions you required—we've been able to collect and preserve your donations for future use. Four pints of your blood…that's over forty-percent of what your body contains. We spread that around the loft, Pollock the place up, and they'll assume hypovolemic shock occurred. You bled out during an attack and the killer took your body, simple as that."  
As simple as that? She scoffed. "And how are you planning to transfer my _body_ unnoticed? That's a rather conspicuous move, don't you think?"

"We walk out the front door," he responded, as though it were the obvious solution, "you in that massive rolling suitcase in Castle's closet, me on my way to JFK for a business class flight. Simple as that."

"As simple as that," she demanded, enraged. He was—in all but the literal sense—destroying her. For all intents and purposes, in all the ways that mattered, she would be gone. Memories, photographs, home videos, and whispered remembrances would be all that remained of who she was.

 _Castle, oh god, Castle, I'm so sorry._  
"Yes," he rejoined, "and then I launch you into your new life. This is your punishment, too, you know. It's Castle that deserves to suffer primarily, but if you suffer as well? That's just a peripheral benefit, my dear. You contributed to this. If not for you, he would never have had the opportunity to interfere. So he…well, he'll have to limp along without you. Thinking you're _actually_ gone. The mystery behind your disappearance will doubtless haunt him as much as the perceived reality of your death. And you? You'll get to live with the knowledge that you're alive and that he has no fucking clue. And that he never will. Maybe even watch him move on, find love a fourth time. Our star-crossed lovers crossed in love again. Poignant, isn't it?"  
What could she say to that? She didn't have the words, was shaking to hard to speak, anyways. Instead, she leaned to the right and neatly vomited on the floor—nothing in her stomach, so just a stream of bitter vile—maintaining eye contact all the while. She spat forcefully, swallowed, straightened, and he smiled.

"We'll start right here, then. Time for some good, old-fashioned 'Pollocking'."

He was thorough; she'd give him that. Emptied three of the units into a bowl he'd stored in his Mary Poppins' bag of horrors, retrieved the fancy butcher knife Castle loved from the block on their counter, dipped the blade in and proceeded to jerk it upwards, then down again. A strange pantomime. Stabbing away at nothing. The blood— _her_ blood—dotted the floors and ceilings. Cheerful streamers clung to the walls and furniture, the upholstery and rug ruined.

Tyson straightened, rolled his shoulders back, and turned to her, knelt down so their faces were level. "I need to untie you. For this next step. But one wrong move…" he trailed off. Waited.

Eyes narrowed, fear and anger knotting her stomach, she gave him her reassurance and nodded.

"Good," his hands deftly unknotted the paracord, freeing her hands first, and then her feet, "Now lie down. You and I are going to create some believable drag marks."

 _You and I._ As though they were a team. Betraying Castle. Breaking his heart together.

Warily, she stood on trembling legs before sinking awkwardly next to the bowl. It was all so surreal—from her happy morning to _this_ in the space of a few short hours.

Detachedly, she watched as Tyson moved the chair back to its empty space at their table, as he pressed her back down against the floor, as he picked up the bowl and tipped its contents onto her. Blood dripped down the slope of her chest, saturated her robe, pooled on the floor beneath her and in the hollows of her clavicles. Hot tears rolled down her temples and collected in her ears, dulling the sound of Tyson's shuffling. He returned with another unit of blood, upended it over her, let it drain and then squeezed out the last vestiges. _Like a tube of toothpaste,_ she thought inanely.

"A handprint would be a nice touch," he murmured, "make one." Swallowing hard, she pressed her palm against the moisture collected on her stomach.

"Where?" She croaked, and his eyes flickered to a bare patch of hardwood floor beside her.

She stretched out her bloody limb and let it rest against the cool planks.

He set another unit on her stomach, uncapped, "Grasp the bag, and slowly squeeze out the contents as I drag you," he instructed. "Hypothetically, you're bleeding out. Which takes a bit of time. So, let's make it believable."

His hand encircled her wrist, and suddenly she was sliding, her eyes on their ceiling, slipping through the loft as she fought to commit everything to memory. _Because what if this was her last glimpse of normalcy?_

"Bag, detective."

She complied, gently compressing the bag and was rewarded by a steady stream of fresh blood. It trickled down her sides, lubricated the dark planks beneath her back.

Through his office _._ The spines of his books, her books, their books. Photographs in expensive frames, Castle, Alexis, herself, all wearing such happy expressions. So far removed from this moment.

Through their bedroom _._ The scent of his cologne lingering in the air, the rumpled duvet a reminder of last night, his hands on her body, his taste in her mouth. At the thought, her eyes fluttered shut.

Into the master bath _._ And they came to a halt. Another unit over her, another puddle beneath her. And then Tyson heaving a sigh that reverberated off the tile and granite. _He sounded happy. Satisfied._

"Next step? Time for a shower, detective," he announced, and bent down, pulling at her sash until it released, began peeling off the robe, panic swelling in her, bursting—

" _Stop,_ " she barked, and oh, she _liked_ that, hearing more fire and less fear in her voice. It snapped her out of her grief for just a moment. "Get your fucking hands _off_ of me," she demanded, all venom and teeth. She wanted to cling to the anger, let it fuel her. Enable her to survive.

His hands fell away from her and he shrugged noncommittally, "As you wish. Undress yourself if you like, but I _will_ have to help you into the tub. Can't have you leaving any bloody footprints. That might raise a few questions. Looks suspicious if the dying victim voluntarily washed herself off. You understand."  
Of course. She understood. Nostrils flaring, eyes slitted, she shucked off the sodden garment, fixing him with a contemptuous expression. She had never been self-conscious when it came to nudity, but his gaze on her body was as palpable as physical touch—not even sexual in nature, just proprietary. Depersonalizing her. _I own you._ She recoiled visibly, hunching her shoulders in an attempt to hide her body from him.

One arm snaked under her knees, the other behind her back, and into the tub she went. A shock of icy water forced a gasp from her, and she stood quickly—painfully _aware_ of his gaze on her—slicking her own blood from her body, squeezing it from the tips of her hair. After about a minute, when she was shivering from the cold, he reached over and shut off the spray. Handed her a towel.

"Don't step out of the tub," he ordered, and then left the room. She took advantage of his absence, using the towel to scrub her skin dry, to rub the moisture from her hair, and then wrapped its length around her trembling body.  
She could hear him approaching, footfalls heavy and purposeful. He rounded the corner, a stack of clothing balanced in his arms and held them out to her, by way of explanation. He watched mutely as she struggled to dress beneath the towel and she turned her face to the wall, hating the weight of his eyes on her. Black leggings, a men's sweatshirt, Keds. Even as she shrugged the fleece top over her head, she felt rigid from the cold. So pervaded by it she wondered if she would ever feel warm again.

Fully dressed but shoeless—clutching the Keds in one hand—she waited and watched numbly as he retrieved Castle's oversized rolling suitcase from their walk-in— _he knew exactly where to find it,_ she thought sickly—and laid it on the bedroom floor. Strode over, picked her up, and carried her into the bedroom, depositing her gently in the empty bag.

"Stay. I'm going to make a final pass," he handed her the damp towel she had used before strolling back into the bathroom. He picked up her bloody bathrobe and dumped it in the tub, drew the shower curtain closed.

He was calm and methodical and chilling, oddly silent as he drifted from room to room, finally returning with his black bag. Pulling a second set of clothes from it, he began to undress, and she averted her eyes, focusing instead on a picture of her and Castle in the Hamptons, sitting on the porch steps together. She already knew the slopes and contours and color variations of his face by heart, but she ran her eyes over the photo hungrily. Fortifying herself for whatever lay ahead.

She heard him zipping his gym bag, and turned back to see him fully dressed, empty blood bags, bloody bowl, dirty clothes, paracord, and duct tape safely stowed away. He turned a full circle, scanning the room one last time, and then nodded his head.

"I think we're good to go, detective," he announced, kneeling beside the suitcase, "lay down, curl up tight. And I don't think I have to tell you this, but no movement, and no sound. You don't want to give yourself away."

 _Of course. No movement. No sound. We're good to go._

Tears again. She couldn't seem to stop them, although her shaking had abated. Salt collected in her mouth, joining her regrets and all the words she wished she had spoken to Castle this morning. If onlys and should haves and could haves. The thought of him returning to the loft tonight, expecting her surprise… _oh god,_ she'd promised him a surprise, and instead he would find—

Agony bloomed in her chest, and she had to fight, force it away, because if she dwelled on that thought for more than a moment, on his suffering, she would _absolutely_ unravel. And she didn't have that luxury right now.

Slowly, she sank to her side, contracting her legs, the metal frame digging into her ribs and hips uncomfortably. It seemed oddly symbolic, lying here in the fetal position, body curving in on itself. Because she was entering a new life—covered in blood, cold, and afraid. An orphan in her new world. No friends, no family, no future. She felt rather like a Russian nesting doll: new life containing new life. _Secrets within secrets within secrets._

The growl of the zipper teeth connecting sounded above her, the light vanishing. She pressed the damp towel to her chest and one hand to her stomach—the only thing she had from _this_ life, a piece of her and Castle—and focused not on the fear or the grief or the throbbing of her head, but on the white-hot rage that coursed through her. Was depending on it to fuel her, sustain her. She would survive. She would find a way out of this, a way back.

For her sake, for her child's sake.

And for Castle.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews, follows, and constructive criticism I received!  
Several of you mentioned that the whole Tyson trope is pretty overdone, and I definitely agree with that assessment. This plot line has just been running through my head nonstop, and I needed to do something with it (besides allowing it to mentally plague me, that is). So, that being said, I hope this is something of a twist—a departure from the typical "Tyson kidnaps Beckett" tropey, torturey stuff.  
My ultimate intention for this fic is to explore the depth of the bond between Castle and Beckett, the limits of their relationship; what each of them will do to make it back to one another. The lengths and sacrifices they'll go through to overcome seemingly insurmountable odds. All that jazz.  
And again, reviews are welcome! I know it was long_ _but I hope you enjoy it!_


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